


One Too Many

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6599098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after a few drinks and Holmes is a mess. Luckily, he has a very good doctor at his disposal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Too Many

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Слишком много](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477208) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



It was nearly noon and the tentative knock on Holmes’s bedroom door was like a hammer. From inside, there was the sound of someone rolling over that Watson took as his invitation. He pushed his way in, stepping over discarded shoes, piles of notes, and the tea tray Mrs. Hudson had been looking for for the last three days. All that was visible of the great Sherlock Holmes was a fluff of dark hair between the quilt and the pillow.

“Holmes?”

“Go away.”

“You ought to try drinking something.”

“I don’t want to drink _anything_ ever again for as long as I live.” Holmes pulled the quilt over his head.

Watson perched on the edge of the mattress with a sigh. “I meant juice, or at the very least some water. You’re dehydrated.”

The quilt groaned.

“It might help.”

A shuffling and another groan. Watson was trying very hard not to enjoy this.

“I thought you could hold your liquor…”

“So did I.” The lump under the quilt rearranged itself and Holmes timidly emerged, squinting fiercely at the dim room as if he’d awoken on the surface of the sun. “Please remind me never again to try and best Gregson in matters of drink.”

“ _He_ was quite a sight.” Watson pressed a glass of water into Holmes’s hands and refused to take it back. “I dare say, I haven’t seen him smile so much in all the years put together as he did last night. And I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to have such ardent opinions on women’s suffrage.”

“Still waters run deep.” Begrudgingly, Holmes wormed his way up to sit against the headboard and glared at the glass of water. His head was surely about to split in two. Sitting up hurt. Looking hurt, too, but if he closed his eyes the room started up on its carousel again. “Oh God, I’m dying.”

“You are _not_. Drink your water.”

The reluctant patient took a tentative sip. The quilt fell down about his hips, revealing his bare torso—clothes had been too restricting to sleep in, and nightclothes, too difficult to find—his skin gleamed with sweat, flattening the sparse hair on his chest and stomach in odd directions. Dark circles loomed under grey eyes. His hair was a disaster, a victim of restless sleep and yesterday’s Macassar oil. He looked haggard, anemic, and, Watson thought, rather beautiful in a martyrish manner. Holmes ventured another swallow of water and a smirk.

“If you keep starring at me like that, I’ll have to charge you. Tuppence a glance.”

“A fair price. You look awful.”

“I feel awful, thank you.”

“And you aren’t wearing a shirt.”

“Excellent observation, old boy, but half-right as usual. _I_ am not wearing _any_ thing.”

“Really?” Watson asked in mock-amazement. Primly, he picked up the edge of the quilt and made to peak at the rest of him as if unveiling some medical curiosity.

Holmes swatted his hand away with a chuckle that dissolved into a groan. Laughing also hurt. He closed his eyes and whined piteously as the room made another revolution.

The good doctor tsk’d. “Reduced to an invalid over a few bolts of whiskey. What would your illustrious bedfellows think?”

“It was more than a few bolts.” Holmes opened his eyes to glance at the criminals who glowered down from his wall. He glowered back. “And _they_ are in no position to judge anyone. Particularly him.” A finger stretched towards a dour, Slavic-looking gentleman with hooded eyes, and a rather unfortunate mustache. “Komensky was a notorious lush. I suppose I’d be murderously-inclined, myself, if I woke up feeling like this everyday.”

They were both smiling now. Halfway through the glass of water, the room decided it liked staying put. By the end of the glass, Holmes felt death was far enough away he could permit a hand on his thigh. Watson gave it a fond squeeze and ran his free hand through the mess of Holmes’s hair. In a few minutes he had him looking nearly respectable.

“You know,” Holmes began after a moment. The dark circles were still there, but the grey eyes were bright and full of affection. “You really are a very good doctor.”

“You need a bath.”

“And you always know just what to say.”

Watson kissed him as if he didn’t taste of last night’s drink. A good, strong kiss was twice as effective as any other remedy and Holmes leaned into this one eagerly. A few more kisses and Watson had lured Holmes halfway out of bed. He fended off a few hopeful gropes and shoved a dressing gown into Holmes’s lap.

“Get dressed. Lunch is still on the table. I’ll have a bath drawn while you eat.” He collected the empty water glass, along with the forgotten tea tray, and made his way back to the door. “And Holmes?”

“Hm?” Holmes looked up from wrestling his way into a pair of trousers.

“If you clean your plate, I just might join you for that bath.”

Holmes glided over the untidy floor expertly and kissed him. “As I said, an excellent doctor, who always knows precisely what to say.”

By one o’clock the empty luncheon dishes had been cleared away, the bath drawn, the household too distracted by their lazy, Sunday occupations to notice Dr. Watson disappear into the bathroom behind Holmes, who had made a miraculous recovery. Eating had felt good. The warm, soapy water felt good. Lips felt good against lips, necks, nipples, everywhere. Toes curled. Muscles relaxed while other parts of him stiffened. No longer the reluctant patient, he gave himself over eagerly to Watson’s care. To hands that teased and stroked and rubbed in precisely the right ways until his back arched and his hips spasmed, splashing water out of the tub and all over Watson’s shirtfront.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the sitting room, Watson in the depths of some yellow-paged novel, while Holmes sucked quietly at his pipe, contentedly appreciating how the world no longer reeled about every time he blinked. Tea and supper came and went, and when the fire began to burn low in the hearth, Watson could not resist one final taunt.

He moved to the sideboard and called, “What would you say to a glass of brandy?”

“Go away.”


End file.
